Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
O ne week later, I’m exiting through the rotating glass doors of the skyscraper housing Virginia Now magazine and resisting the urge to leap into the air.
Excess energy ping-pongs through my system, a rightful smile belying my exhilaration.
Not to jinx my luck, but that couldn’t have gone any better.
I met with Maureen, another no-nonsense managing editor (confident and fortyish), and Tyler, the Travel & Culture editor (a twenty-something dressed like he reads GQ ).
Our rapport was easy and effortless. Answers to their questions slid confidently from my mouth, and my enthusiasm was obvious.
They praised my portfolio, which aside from San Francisco Life pieces, consists of pieces from The Spartan Daily , the San Jose wellness publication during my internship, and a smattering of personal work.
Trees in spring bloom brighten the sidewalk in shades of deep-to-light pinks, and the sun’s rays bathe me in warmth.
When I pass by an attractive bar—its plate glass windows showcasing an airy, bright interior—my legs propel me through the front door almost of their own volition.
My responsibilities are done for the day, and this calls for a celebration. Knock on wood, I’ll get the job.
I claim a stool at the long wooden bar. A sunbeam casts a glow against the tiered liquor bottles lined up in neat rows.
I’m lost in their colorful hues until a cocktail napkin placed before me ushers me back to the present.
A slender woman asks for my order. She’s got a spiky pixie haircut and is clad in all-black fitted clothing.
It’s not a look I could get away with, but one I strongly admire.
When my drink arrives, I take a welcome swallow of the cool Tequila Sunrise and close my eyes.
Heaven. My neck is so stiff, I lean my head back, shaking my long hair off my shoulders and working out the kinks.
Better. A few more sips in, I’m replaying the interview.
In my heart, I know it’s right. I want that job.
My high heel taps against the metal footrest under the bar, and I debate ducking into the bathroom to take off these infernal nylons.
That is one aspect of wearing professional attire I’m not stoked about, but it seems expected.
“You’re sending Morse Code up my leg with all that tapping.”
My head swivels to the guy three stools down. He’s staring at me with the greenest damn eyes I’ve ever seen. His eyebrows raise, and his gaze pins me before shifting to my foot.
“Oh. Sorry.” I place a hand on my thigh and stop.
Offering up a sheepish smile, I make the mistake of meeting his gaze again.
With his rich brunette hair and sun-kissed skin as a backdrop to those ridiculous eyes, he’s handsome as hell.
Heart-stoppingly so, even for this jaded, headed-for-spinsterhood gal.
A thin coat of stubble accentuates his chin and jawline.
He skewers me with an incredulous stare. “Are you the kind of person who can’t sit still?
I realize my foot is back at it, and I bring it to a halt. A zing of irritation permeates. This guy’s being a grumpy dick—immediately making him less gorgeous. Ha. “No. I’m just happy, something I have a feeling you never experience.”
His head drops, but one side of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting a grin.
I return to my cocktail.
He mutters something indiscernible.
When I glance his way, he’s cuffing the back of his head and staring straight ahead. Perhaps he’s having a bad day.
“Can I buy you a drink? Help fuel your”—his hand swirls in the air, his brows lifting my way again—“happiness?”
I decide to cut him some slack. “Sure. Maybe some of it will rub off on you.”
He tips his head at the bartender. “We’ll take two more when you have a minute, please,” he says, motioning to our drinks.
My eyes slide down his body while he’s occupied.
He’s a full-on man, with muscular arms straining a black button-down rolled halfway up his forearms, blue jeans that are dark but broken in, and scuffed work boots that remind me of two mechanics I’m still trying to forget.
It’s enough to get my heart skipping a beat.
And it’s been a really, really long time since there’s been any of that nonsense.
The barkeep places a fresh cocktail on my napkin, and I murmur a thanks. “And thank you…?”
“Butch.” He lifts his beer.
“Hmm. Never met a Butch before.”
“Today’s the day, apparently.”
“Apparently.”
“And you are?”
I can’t help myself. “Sundance.”
He shakes his head, once again fighting a smile, and I realize how much I want to see him unleash a genuine one. “Although… ”
“What?”
His gaze drags over me from top to bottom. “It fits.”
My cheeks burn, and I’m left tongue-tied.
He tips his beer, the liquid making his Adam’s apple undulate in a way I can’t help but watch. His shirt is open a few buttons and my eyes zero in on the golden skin peeking through. God, stop checking him out already.
“You live around here?” I ask.
“Not really. You?”
Another cryptic motherfucker. “Not even close.”
His eyebrows lift again. “Where you from, Sundance?”
“California.”
Butch snorts. “Figures.”
“Why? Because my hair’s blond? Give me a break.”
“Like, totally, I’m sure,” he deadpans, attempting—and failing at—the proper inflection.
I toss him a glare and sip more of my drink. I want to shoot every Valley girl and Frank Zappa, whose stupid song broadcasted their existence to the entire world.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Just teasing. You here on vacation?”
“Job interview.”
“That’s the reason for the good mood?”
My smile says it all.
“So, the California girl’s leaving the sunshine state and coming over here to give the mid-Atlantic a spin?”
The pain surrounding that statement envelops me like a blanket, smothering me for a long moment, and I can only nod. Leaving is the only way to create the fresh start I desperately need, but I refrain from saying it out loud. That’s way too intimate for a stranger at a bar.
He leaves it alone, maybe sensing my discomfort.
When I glance at him again, his lifted expression is a silent question about whether he can move closer.
My head dips in assent. What the hell. It’s not like he’s proposing marriage.
I nearly snort…I can’t even muster interest in a man longer than three dates.
And I’m here for a split second of time, so yeah… what the hell.
His height towers as he moves to the stool next to mine. Damn, he’s tall, like well over six feet. He fills out those jeans nicely too…and everything else. He’s also older than me, but it’s hard to tell by how much.
“Virginia’s got a lot going for it,” he says softly.
My eyes meet his, which this close are going to be my downfall. He has bedroom eyes, fuck-me-into-oblivion eyes, maybe even fall-in-love-with-me eyes. They’re stunning.
Before I can control my mouth, I blurt it out. “You have incredible eyes.”
“So do you.” He studies me closer. “Amber—with a hint of fire,” he decides, and my skin prickles from his proximity and scrutiny. “Have you ever seen the real thing?”
I shake my head dumbly, like I’ve forgotten English.
“It’s fossilized sap from conifer trees, which probably doesn’t sound very glamorous, but it’s beautiful, coming in shades of yellow, orange, and sometimes green.
People make jewelry with it nowadays, which is a far sight better than these fossils sitting around collecting dust in archeology labs.
” He stares hard, examining me. “Unusual.”
“Unusual good ?” Now it sounds like I’m fishing for a compliment.
He mutters under his breath as he faces his beer, those corded forearms snagging my attention. “Yeah, Sundance. Everything about you is unusual good.”
Warmth spreads through me like butter on hot toast, and my stomach swoops. “So, where are you from if you’re ‘not really’ from here?”
“Further south. I’m here for…legal bullshit.” He grimaces, but only for a split second.
“Bummer. Do you want to talk about it—or am I being too intrusive? ”
Butch sighs, giving me a sideways glance. “It’s a long, sad story I won’t trouble you with, but suffice it to say, I’m not a fan of lawyers or the court system or utter strangers making decisions that affect my life.”
“I’m sorry.” He seems dejected.
He rolls his head back and to the sides, his neck cracking. “Actually, I’m sorry. I was rude earlier and shouldn’t…” He pauses. “I’m just tired.”
It’s hard not to study him, to wonder what’s really going on in his life. “If you have so far to drive, why are you drinking?”
Something akin to grief or frustration or despair flickers in his expression…all guesses on my part as I mine his face for clues.
After a weighty pause, he says, “I won’t have another. Two’s my limit.” There’s something indecipherable in that admission. Is he an alcoholic? Or maybe one of his parents? Or…Jesus, why am I guessing? He drains the remainder of his beer and my gaze flicks to his left hand. No ring.
“What are you doing with the rest of your night?” I utter before my brain can corral my words.
I’ve got his full attention now. His green eyes laser focus on me then dip down to my mouth. “Yet to be determined.”
What am I doing? He’s a fucking stranger.
A gorgeous stranger .
I don’t know why, but I’m feeling reckless. Wild. Happy-go-lucky.
My smile unfurls. “I’ve got a hotel room.”